“I’ll buy a strip of carpet for mother’s bedside, and two glass dishes to put jam in, instead of saucers,” said Grace.
“I’ll get her a piano to play on and teach us, and a silk dress like Mrs. Brown’s, only more rustley,” chose Hope. “And Daddy, we will buy him a box full of old books; he likes the smellie sort, without pictures in them.”
“I think we should buy him something nice to eat; chocolates and dates; they smell so nice,” said Joy.
“No!” replied Hope, with decision; “men don’t care what they have to eat as long as there is enough of it.” Joy heaved a sigh. “Glad I’m not going to be a man. Will we be allowed to buy anything for ourselves?”
“Certainly not! Nice people don’t buy themselves presents.” Joy heaved another long-drawn sigh.
They were so engrossed in picking out small nuggets, from the size of irregular peas to large pins’ heads, that their father’s voice, “Below there,” quite startled them. “All’s well,” replied Hope; “I could not climb up.”
“Your mother became anxious. Nice diggers you’ll make, letting your rope free,” he said, as he descended by the foot holes. “We have a Christmas present for mother,” said Hope, “just feel the weight,” as she held a half-filled pannikin toward him. At first he could not see clearly in the subdued light, for the day was cloudy, and most of the particles of gold were covered with clay. Still, a few shone brightly. Then all the blood seemed to rush to his heart, then surge back again, and throb at his temples. He leaned against the wall, and for a few seconds gasped for breath and could not see clearly. Had the dreams of years come true? Had success crowned his efforts at last? Still, he said never a word.
Hope, aided by Joy, told the story. “And this is the board. Daddy, with the writing on it.” He had not touched the pannikin, but examined the board carefully; there was nothing visible. He produced a candle and matches from a tin box; not a sign of a letter. At first, while the children were speaking, he thought it might have been B.B., but recollected that he could not write. No! It must have been a dream, and that conclusion was adhered to.
“I think it was God sent him, because mother is so good,” said Grace, who was devout.
“I believe He did,” replied the father, earnestly.